


Missy's Vault

by maurinejt



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who Season 10 - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-26 20:54:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12565988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maurinejt/pseuds/maurinejt
Summary: This is Missy’s side of the story while imprisoned in the Vault throughout season ten. These are the scenes we didn’t witness, that explore the relationship between the Doctor and the Master, together with their long, shared history. Missy’s Vault moves beyond the arcs of Missy’s incarnation to answer the big questions about the most engaging villain Doctor Who has ever produced.





	1. Chapter 1

Her prison resembled a small warehouse. It was bigger inside than the outside would suggest, but only a bit. It certainly wasn’t a multidimensional jumble of a million rooms, corridors, alcoves, ramps, stairs, and a swimming pool; it was far cruder tech than that. Positively claustrophobic for a thousand years. Of course, she was supposed to be dead. And it had lovely windows, the streaming sunlight had stung her eyes as she struggled to open them. She felt a cushion under her, an oversized padded stool? A chaise lounge? It was high and had no back; too narrow for a bed. The warmth and weight of an afghan draped over her was strangely comforting. Blearily, she moved her head towards the one she sensed was there. It was almost too difficult.

He looked uncomfortable.

“What?” she asked, barely able to speak.

“I sat like this with River. Long ago. She poisoned me, then gave me all her regenerations to save my life. She woke up like you just did.”

“Lucky her. And lucky you, I suppose.” She winced at the effort it took to say anything.

“Did you ever meet her? I thought you might have.”

Somewhere from the dregs of her being she pulled out a mysterious smile. “Spoilers,” she managed as the world grayed out again.

When she woke up, she felt only slightly better. He was still there.

“Don’t you have a life? Planets to save, people to help?”

“Just one. You.”

She tried to be unmoved. Her friend had become her jailer, thief of her free will. But she had been his on occasion, and she was touched.

“The question is, do you want me to? Were you serious about turning good?”

“Why would I have said it otherwise, my bold rescuer? My hero? My all?” She put a hand dramatically to her forehead and almost passed out again. She took a few deep, slow, breaths and the room steadied.

“Because you were going to die. And you could have said anything to save yourself.”

“It has gone the other way in the past,” She pointed out delicately.

He glanced at her in annoyance and began to pace. “Rules. You do not to attempt to leave this vault. For any reason, understand? No sabotage of mechanisms, people around me, or the laws of causality. If we’re successful, outings may be arranged on a trial basis. I say when.”

“So much for a thousand years imprisonment.”

“If this works…” he rushed back over and knelt by her at eye level. “Missy, if we can channel all your brilliance to do good in the universe…you won’t be the same person they tried to execute. My pledge won’t hold me, and you will be free.”

“Why, Doctor, that is the most dazzling piece of sophistry I’ve ever heard. Were you concocting that the entire time you sat there?”

“Some of it. Do you agree?”

She opened her mouth to negotiate, to weight the bargain with her own agenda when her stomach exploded in nausea; she choked on vomit before a gentle hand on her shoulder turned her away on her side. She retched on the shining vault floor. Who was she fooling? She had nothing to add.

With the stark practicality that drove her these days, she uttered: “I agree,” and spat out some lingering bile. A few minutes later she felt a damp towel over her mouth, cleaning the trail of saliva. A cup of water was prodded against her lips.

“Rest,” he said from behind her.

She did.

 

She didn’t remember ever really sleeping since she was grown. She napped as was customary for adults, in fits and starts. Yet, her first days in the vault, she slept. She slept as if she were exhausted, as if years of insomnia finally caught up with her. She would close her eyes and open them days later. At least they eventually found her a bed. But if she heard voices outside--if the barest whisper sounded in the dark--she would waken immediately, alert as if she merely snapped back to the present after a wandering thought.

He talked to her through the door. The things she learned through the crack were much more revealing than anything he said to her face. As he spoke, her mind would show her deviously creative ways to use whatever he told her in elaborate plots to sting him. Plans rose and fell in an instant before she managed to quiet them. She had to remind herself why she was there. She had to stifle the voices.


	2. Chapter 2

“May I come in?”

“Why do you even bother to ask?” She retorted. “Do you want me to be a cabaret girl, and sing too?”

She almost heard him waiting.

“All right. But only if you bring books! Do you have books?”

She heard the snap of pages ruffling. “Come in!!” she cried impatiently.

The doors opened and shut, he handed her a full canvas tote, the edges of anonymous volumes peeping out. She took the top one. “Harry Potter?”

“A human series. A boy and his friends attend a school to learn magic and fight the most monstrous, evil wizard who has ever lived. He wants to destroy everything, rule what’s left, and live forever.”

She stared at him accusingly. “Is this a book or a morality play?”

“Whatever you like,” he threw himself in one of her armchairs. “I thought you’d enjoy Voldemort, anyway. He has style.”

“And good conquers all, I suppose,” she sighed.

“I’m not going to give the end away!” He protested. “But, well, you are learning to be good.”

“I recall the options being just a teensy bit limited.”

“No one made you say the words. I’d already fixed the circuitry, it was ready to go the night before.”

“That wasn’t lost on me, you know.” She said sharply. “You could have said something.”

“I almost got eaten by bears, if that makes you feel better. Well, not exactly bears, but close enough.” He went on, more seriously. “I knew they’d make me swear some sort of oath to keep you. I was just afraid you were going to choose death again, rather than go along.”

“Don’t you know? I’m a whole new woman.” She performed a half-dance step and an expansive ‘ta-dah’. 

His eyes bored into her, pain-haunted. “You can’t know what that was like, to feel you die in my arms just because you were being stubborn.”

“I finally took your oh-so-tempting offer. Happy? Though at least I’d have actual décor in the Tardis. And a bedroom.”

He pushed himself out of his chair and regarded her with the peculiar mien of someone who saw the fractals of time surrounding her, what was, is, and could be. All at once. All the potential. “I am. I am happy.” He sounded surprised. “We’re in this together, you and I.”

For just a moment she was swept up in his camaraderie. It was an effort to extricate herself and give him an enigmatic smile. 

“Perhaps I was lying, after all. You never know, do you?” She raised her eyebrows at him, pulling other books out of the bag. “How many of these Harry Potter books are there?”

“Seven.”

“Well that’s an evening in, will you be back tomorrow?”

“You know I can’t.”

“It’s curious why you listen to that egg thing who cleans up after you. Why does he get to tell you what to do?”

It was the Doctor’s turn to not answer.

She studied him thoughtfully. “You know what I would really like.”

“What, a magnetic field generator? Chemistry set with innocuous household cleaners? An incinerator?”

“Don’t be silly, it’s not my birthday. Goodness.” She smoothed her skirt. “I want a piano.”

“Then Nardole would know I’ve been to see you.”

“Golly. However will we manage? Sound the alarm!”

“And why do you want a piano?”

“Because unlike books, an instrument goes on for as long as you want it to, and you choose what to play on it.” She moved in so close she could feel his breath; then crooked the corner of her mouth up at him. “Neither one of us is very good at being told what to play.” She skipped away. “I’m here, Doctor. But don’t ever confuse being willing with being easy.”

“I’ve never thought that.” The words were bleak and hard. 

For just an instant they had a perfect understanding between their private hells. Though she knew hers was worse. She almost told him the truth, right then, but choked off the impulse. She would not stand here and admit that in front of him. She shut her eyes against it.

He started. “What’s wrong?”

Despite herself, she was conscious of a warm coil of perverse pleasure. He hated to see her in pain; fine. Let him see. It was the only revenge she felt up to right then. Her eyes blinked open and seized his gaze. She held back nothing. “Piano,” she said.

 

She was truly awake in the dark and nothing had woken her. What had she dreamed? Joy. Perhaps from the time they were still children. They played, talked, devised, and got into quite a lot of trouble. Of course, she had been a boy then, and the Doctor would remember her that way; but her memories were her own--contiguous and linear--and she was a woman in this body. She remembered as a girl though she hadn’t been one. Well, mostly.

No, this dream came later. It wasn’t really a dream though, it had happened. It was the last time she had known joy without blood in it. That night in the abandoned courtyard, the whole of the cosmos above them. 

Looking at it from the remove of years, he might have stayed with her forever, but the hunger within her could only be fed by burning and death. It was stronger when she was staring happiness in the face. Eventually it became too strong, too jealous, to hold her to him, and too repellant for him to try very hard.

She lay on her back with her eyes closed, wondering if she would dream again. A minute later, she felt a warm trickle traverse her ears and realized she was crying.

When had she cried last?

She didn’t know, but it probably involved him. He alone had the power to hurt her. And he did. She could only hurt him through the people he loved.


	3. Chapter 3

Meditation. Acceptance and Repentance. Contemplation of the absolute. It formed a litany as she stretched into position after position. 

She never realized those words recited to her plaything long ago would one day return to haunt her, dripping with her own blood. She derided those who took the concept of karma seriously, usually right before she killed them. 

Meditation, Inhale. Acceptance, reach. Repentance, hold. Contemplation of the absolute, exhale. If she said it enough times, it became gibberish.

Again. Meditation, Acceptance, Repentance…

Her elbow, balanced on the smooth floor, slipped just a little and she nearly fell. She finished by holding steady until her muscles protested, then relaxed and started to get dressed.

She sponged off the old-fashioned way, using a basin and towel, before donning her boots, corset, and Edwardian layers. It had been a joke at first, that the Doctor needed a nanny—she had modeled herself on a particularly severe, conservative stereotype still floating around the prevailing culture her friend most enjoyed. But that wasn’t the real reason. This was her costume because it made her feel protected. It was the same mindset as a warrior who sleeps in his armor because he is likely to wake up to a fight. Now, she activated the nanotech that closed the corset, a taut balance between molding to her body and holding it in place. No one could know, no one could guess what war she fought; and she was close to someone very, very good at guessing. 

She pulled out her makeup and opened the powder compact. It was warpaint, really. She enjoyed playing with how she was viewed through the purposeful application of color to her face. The palette she used now was far toned down from the startling blue over the eyelids and deep crimson on the lips she sported during the height of her power. Then, she was invincible and riding the rush of a beautifully unfolding plan. Not so suitable, these days. Her hair she used to coil in elaborate twists and pin back, but the vault was too primitive for that. She didn’t even have a large mirror. How ghastly that would be, her inescapable reflection following her everywhere? Now, she gathered it up on the top of her head and let it fall where it would. She rather liked the spontaneity, that you never quite knew where it was going to go.

She was ready for the day.


	4. Chapter 4

“What did you do with your Confession Dial?” she asked. She doubted her friend still carried it on his person after being trapped in it. She was in a strange mood, she almost didn’t let him in.

“Oh, knocking about somewhere,” he said carelessly, above the sonic whine. Which was Doctor-speak for it would take mere seconds to get his hands on it from wherever he had carefully enshrined it. She wasn’t the only one who hated to give herself away.

“Clara asked me once how a Time Lord is supposed to die.”

“Meditation. Acceptance and repentance. Contemplation of the absolute.” He said absently. The whine ceased. He sat up from where he had laid on the floor to reprogram the base of the dais. “There, it should be keyed to you. Do you want to initiate with a pressure point or command?” He tweaked a setting on his screwdriver.

She loathed the containment field on the dais in the center of the vault, it made her feel like a caged bird. At least there wasn’t an occasion to use it very often; only when the Doctor brought Nardole along, and that was rare. She scared the little egg man for some reason. Amused at the thought, she ran a speculative eye over the completed work. It would take about a dozen minute adjustments to the calculations to cause the field to invert, leaving her visitors trapped in the vault and she free on the dais. Which would be easier to assemble in the space, a teleporter or a grav lift…?

No.

“Command will do. So, what becomes of a Confession Dial when it’s not the eve of your final day, after all? Did you add an “oops, I’m sorry” to the contents?”

Unsurprisingly, he didn’t answer her.

“Do you know why Clara asked me? She figured it out, you know. She was the one who found your charming medieval wake.” No response.

“In fact, I believe I’ll use ‘Clara’ as my command word. For remembrance.” She said the last with mocking piety.

He stopped pretending to fidget with his instrument. He looked at her and she could read the pain of every one of his thousands of years in his eyes.

“I don’t know Clara.”

“Oh, but you must! Dear me, have you hit your head? Should I call a Doctor? Well, that’s a little impractical; isn’t it?” she rolled her eyes dramatically, then began to circle him like a wolf pacing the edge of a campfire. He watched her warily.

“What, nothing? How dreadful. How very sad.” A mock, regretful hand pressed to her chest. “Clara was such a delight! So funny. It’s a shame, it truly is…”

“Don’t say that name, again! I don’t know her.”

She smiled sweetly. “I do. Oh, I heard about the neuro-block. I’m really, very sorry. Do you want to know what happened to her? Do you want me to tell you? You are so very hard on your favorite toys, Doctor! You break them all to pieces and then cry over the bits. And then you choose another and do it all over again.”

“Stop.” He gripped his screwdriver, actually trembling with anger. She felt a fluttering of the old excitement and it was delicious.

“She loved you so much. You can’t feel it? Just a tiny bit? The merest echo of such a great, dramatic, epic, love?! You went to hell for her, can you recall that? That’s where you bumped into me. Later, you almost ended time for her. Oh, Doctor, why didn’t you let me give you an army? So much less damage, I’d already done the heavy lifting. Instead you handpick lives, only the best and brightest will do, and ruin them. And this time even the memories are gone.”

He stalked over to her, furious. For one wild moment, she wasn’t sure what he was going to do, and it was as exciting as throwing a lit firecracker. She felt cheated when his face went through a visible internal struggle and words came out calmly.

“I met a waitress in a diner once. I told her that you can always recreate what is missing from the hole it leaves. There was another girl, her name was Amy. The man she loved had been erased from time, excised from reality itself. Yet she wept for him when she saw her engagement ring. She didn’t even understand why. I don’t remember Clara. But I know she traveled with me. I know she was brave, and strong, and resourceful, because I still have what I did, and how each story went, so I can fill in the gaps. Nothing is taken cleanly, Missy! There’s always something left as a clue.”

There were moments he could make her hearts stop.

“It’s pitiful, isn’t it?” she said through bloodless lips. “Spending so much energy piecing together a person you’ll never be able to recognize. What happened to the dashing Doctor I knew? Literally. You’ve only ever lived in one direction--like a hood ornament on a race car.”

“Not everything lost is in the past.” He told her. Did he hold her gaze a fraction too long?

She forced herself to take a normal breath.

“No.” She agreed. “But Clara is.”


	5. Chapter 5

It was snowing. She could see the magnified white flakes slide against her windows which faithfully projected the changing light and local weather patterns. Presumably, this was for the benefit of the mourners visiting the entombed dead. It was cold in the vault despite sporadic efforts to rig up some sort of central heating by she and the Doctor—all of which was mysteriously undone in a matter of hours. Finally, they threw in a brazier, she wore extra layers in the winter, and they called it a day. Her prison had been created to hold a corpse for a thousand years and it obstinately held to that original purpose. How oddly appropriate it had become her world.

Her first murder was herself.

She had been taught it was a horrific act, an unspeakable sin--or rather, that which passed for such among her people, who considered themselves too enlightened for the concept of sin.

It wasn’t. As she died, she was consumed in agony, the introduced contagion running through the tributaries of her body, crippling her. She doubled over and writhed; but beneath it all it was change, not death. The energy was already working. And she had made it happen; it was her doing, her will! She had harnessed the most primal force in the universe. It was life and death and glory! It was the height of ecstasy!! It was the most powerful she had ever been!!! She didn’t know it until much later, but it was then she first became the Master.

When she woke, she was reborn. The possibilities reset. The ledger had been balanced back to zero.

She had given herself the injection that ended one life and begun the next because when you have twelve lives to squander and you’re in love with your best friend, why not? Oh, they could have loved each other as men; they even tried one night after too much ginger wine. But they just ended up giggling and making silly comments at everything that went wrong. No, between the two of them, one had to be male, and one female. She hadn’t even thought about it too much once she decided, mostly congratulated herself on a pithy solution to a problem.

She was so happy when she found him in the square, afterwards. “It’s me!” she said proudly.

“Who?” he was taken aback. Then he stared, appraising her from head to toe. She watched his dawning comprehension with delight. “What did you do?” his voice was guarded.

“Regenerated,” she smiled.

“On…purpose.”

She shrugged.

“No. No, you didn’t, you couldn’t have. Tell me you didn’t!” His face had gone white.

Why wasn’t he pleased? He looked ill. Her smile faded.

“It was fine. It was nothing,” she gently set her fingers on his arm to reassure him. He backed away.

“It. Wasn’t. Nothing. How could you do that—how could you value your life so little!!” Without warning, he gripped her cheeks and jaw in his two hands as if he would force a confession, searching her features. “It’s against nature, everything we stand for, the very essence of what it means to be a Time Lord –you have forsaken it all!!”

She yanked herself away. “Since when have you cared anything for the rules?” she said angrily.

“This is different,” he whispered.

“I did it for you,” she said incredulously. “For us!” She felt heads of the other passerbys on the square turn. She didn’t care.

He shook his head slightly, a tremor or a negative, she couldn’t tell. “I don’t know you.” He said blankly. “You’re a stranger to me. My friend is gone.” And then he turned and walked away from her.

She stood there, uncomprehending for minutes after he left. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t remember how. She had to tell herself: in, and out. In, and out. She looked at the dainty bare foot that belonged to someone else, but took a step when she willed it to move. Then another and another, and that is how she walked. One step, two, three; without thought, without feeling, because if she felt, she would scream.

There was an abandoned courtyard where they liked to meet. A monument to one of the esteemed founders overgrown and untended, he was later branded as a traitor of the first Time War. Gallifrey being what it was, deliberately didn’t pull down the monument, just ceased caring for it and let it erode with time. Students sometimes were brought here, and told the story. But it had been decades since even that. The yard was carefully locked and it was tucked out of the way so very few found it. The few was down to just them, at present.

He found her there, sobbing in her strange new body under a million stars all spinning out their lives above them. He fell to his knees, next to her. “I’m sorry.”

She couldn’t look at him, she kept her face buried in the crook of her arm curled around her folded legs. “Are you sure you know me? Are you my friend?” She asked bitterly.

“Yes,” he replied simply. “I shouldn’t have said that. Ever. It was cruel. And untrue. You’re…my dearest friend. And always will be. I just couldn’t believe...I want to know _why_.”

She lifted her head in bewildered puzzlement. “Why not? You’re worth dying for. Don’t you know that?”

Caught in the memory, looking out at the falling spots of white, she saw with unflinching accuracy that it was a fact that she simply accepted. She was honest about it, then. They hadn’t yet sealed their destiny against each other through the names they chose. Maybe that was why.

He recoiled, as if her words physically slapped him. He rocked back and overbalanced, sitting with a thump.

“I am not,” he told her with certainty.

She uncurled, lowering her arms, straightening her legs. She hoped the starlight would make her look unearthly and mysterious and not blotchy from the hours of sobbing so hard the ground beneath her was damp. “Yes. You are.” She said. Then she stretched out her hand. Tentatively, not sure of its welcome. “You’re my dearest friend, too.”

He was quiet as he looked at her. Then their hands joined. She could only hear their hearts, so loud, how many beats between them? And the instant they synched. He didn’t kiss her, she didn’t kiss him, they found each other in the same moment. And then her hand slid underneath his clothing and she pulled him free of them. After a startled breath, he did the same to her. He touched her with wonder, love from his fingers shone against her skin and warmed her. Slowly, so slowly she was filled until she gasped; but it was such a small sound for the clarion note of exultation that echoed through her. Just one note sang again, and again. For the love of the man who fit her best in all of space and time.

It was that first night when their child was conceived. Perhaps. She always imagined it was. It would happen again, countless times before it was over, but none would be as true, as pure, as the first.

Precautions should have been in place, of course; a parent's duty was sacred and the young were always prone to reckless experimentation. It usually passed, leaving another sober citizen to toe the line set by the ancestors. But she purposefully skipped the safeguard. So what if there was a child? He, or she, would be the living embodiment of their friendship. What could be more wonderful? They were too close to the timelines for certainty, the possibilities splintered in a thousand directions. It added a titillating dash of danger. They never talked about it, and he never asked. But he knew.  He saw the details of everything around him, as she did. She assumed he felt the same.

She walked over closer to the window in her vault. She put her hand flat against the glass, finger splayed. It was as cold as the snowy outside. She welcomed the freezing touch, she kept her hand there pressing steadily, feeling the cold seep through her; one minute, two, deadening the nerves, making the bones ache.

She closed her eyes against the vicious fights, bitter accusations and abrupt departures that marked the years as it all changed. What was a bond turned to a shackle and she was glad to be rid of it. She raged across the galaxy in the Tardis her father gave her upon graduation, how he managed that, he never knew; she guessed some ancient favors called in coupled with hefty bribes. Eventually the smoke from the planets she torched caught the attention of the authorities of Gallifrey, and they came to arrest her one evening as a sun set across the orange sky.

They questioned, drilled, poked, and prodded…and found nothing conclusive. She had learned early on to cover her tracks. They knew she was guilty, and they were missing something. They dug harder, they grew angry and frustrated and promised her the worst retributions the Time Lords could mete out. And some of those could not even be spoken aloud, only whispered as legend. If the Doctor had ever thought to ask her, she could have enlightened him--in detail--as to the origin of the Weeping Angels.

It was maddening, because she knew what would shut them up. She could give her fragile, and very illegal, little family over to their merciless justice to buy herself out of trouble. She could be back out there, playing God to another indigenous, superstitious populace in a couple of days. She’d be feasting in a palace while slaves built her monuments and war machines. This whole mess would disappear. But she stayed silent. She couldn’t make herself say the words. They would not push her, she told herself righteously. She, the Master! She would never give them the satisfaction. She didn’t care what happened to the Doctor and their whelp, but she was not going to let the Time Lords win.

She was so adept at lying to herself by then.

They came to her one morning, in full panoply, with collars and robes. They roughly escorted her from her cell to a small, formal room. The ceilings were very high and the floor was precious wood, a perfect sheen of grain and knots. A decorative iron railing closed off one side. Perhaps it was once used for petitions. A group of six or so Time Lords, hands folded serenely, stood against it; opposite from where she entered.

“You don’t have enough evidence for a trial,” she jeered at them, “You’re bluffing.”

“It’s a hearing.” The councilor in charge told the prisoner. “A witness has come forward, and we need you to review and either refute or accept the statement before we deliberate if escalation is warranted.”

“A single witness? You can’t hang anything on me through the word of one person!”

“That depends on the person,” the councilor answered. A murmur flew through the room and the Time Lords parted.

 _He_ stood there.

“You’re the witness.” She said flatly.

Analytically, she noted he looked exhausted and rumpled, despite his formal robes which fit him badly. The fabric was faded and some of the brocade had rubbed off.

He slowly pulled out a piece of paper. He didn’t answer or look at her.

“This is the sworn statement regarding the Time Lord, the Master, given by the Time Lord…the Doctor.” He read without expression, stumbling over his name. He glanced up and for just a moment their eyes met in a blaze of emotion. He quickly looked away. Then he cleared his throat, turned back to his page and continued.

Oh, it was thorough. She had bragged about her many activities in indecent detail to the Doctor during her infrequent visits, mostly to watch him squirm, torn between anger and grief. Helpless to do anything to stop her, other than sputter. Telling him was almost as pleasurable as the deeds. Well, he had been listening. Every conquered nation, oppressed planet, genocide, razed city, and execution was read out in an unwavering voice by her best friend.

What he hadn’t been told, he figured out. He gave them coordinates of bolt holes, secret maps, locations of plans and diaries, stashed labs full of half-completed experiments…and on and on.

It took a long time. It seemed like hours before he finished.

“I need some water. Please,” He said, once he was done. A page gave him a flask, he drained it.

“Do you refute this statement,” she was asked by the councilor. She didn’t even look at the woman. Her gaze was fixed on one man.

“You betrayed me.” She said. Very softly. “You betrayed me and everything we’ve done. Everything we’ve gone through together. You are my best friend!!” Her hands clenched in fists and she didn’t care who heard her yell. “How could you do this, how?”

“Master! Do you refute it?”

“I will kill you. I will hunt you down and when you least expect it, I will take your lives one by one until they are gone. Until you are dust. You are mine, from this day forward, every breath you take is closer to the day when I end it all. Do you understand?! I swear it. I vow.”

“For the last time, do you refute it?!”

“NO, I DON’T REFUTE IT.” She thundered.

The Doctor looked like she had killed him already.

Good, because he had stabbed her right through both hearts.

“May I be excused,” whispered the Doctor.

“No, I’m afraid,” answered the councilor, regretfully. “In the course of investigating the accused and your--shall we say--unconventional shared history, an…anomaly was discovered that may need to be…corrected.”

Oh. Her hearts beat faster. She felt an odd pang. What was that? No, she didn’t care. Don’t examine it too closely. But automatically, she and her newly-minted arch enemy exchanged glances.

She had seen him brave the Cloisters. She had seen him stand up to powers that didn’t even have names. She had seen him walk through rooms filled with monsters.

She had never seen him truly afraid.

Now, he was.

“There’s no need to confine you,” the councilor continued. “I’m sure it is a mere inconsistency in the record, but it is a serious matter and we must restrict your movements while we probe further.” The Time Lady pulled out a small device, turned a few wheels with Gallifreyan script, and aimed.

Her friend transformed from a hale young man to a wizened, white-haired elder in a second. He had to clutch the railing to stay upright. “What?” his new voice quavered.

“We can reverse the beam when this is cleared up. Sorry for the inconvenience, I’m sure it won’t be long.”

“Can I go now,” he said, querulously.

“Oh, certainly. We’ll find you.”

That was the last she saw of him. She was taken away and thrown in the darkest time-locked cell, in the deepest part of Arcadia. She knew her trial would soon start and they would condemn her and that would be that.

The next day, though, her guards seemed unusually animated, conversing excitedly with each other as they brought her breakfast, though she couldn’t follow what they were saying. “What? Stole what? Who?” she finally asked.

One of them came up to the force field.

“Your friend. The one they aged up in court yesterday so he’d stay put. Well, he didn’t. He stole a Tardis and ran away. They haven’t the foggiest idea where he is.”

Her first thought was: Idiots. But she smiled. Just a little.

Years and regenerations later, it was with immense satisfaction that she reverse-engineered the technology and personally took the Doctor’s youthful, strong, incarnation and pushed his age as far as it would go--into a decrepit, hairless, rat. Her gloating was a bit marred by the fact he didn’t seem to care…as he hadn’t then.

Her hand on the window had gone numb. She released it, and caught it in the folds of her dress. It burned. She rubbed it, absently as the fiery tingles intensified then faded, thinking about her impetuous vow. She could admit now what that hate really was. How long had it taken her? She let out a bitter chuckle at the irony. She no longer wanted to kill him. She was done telling herself lies. But she couldn’t allow anyone else to either. He was hers, and if he was to die forever, it would be at her hands. She had claimed him long ago.


	6. Chapter 6

The faint smell of Mexican takeout lingered in the vault. It made the place lonelier in the daylight. The story he spun for her the night before had been excellent, though the ending not very satisfactory. But she cheered up at the thought that the intrepid wood lice could be starting over right now, on another house that would trap its own set of renters.

She smiled a tight, secretive smile. The tale of the presumed father who turned out really be the son had a familiar ring. She once knew a daughter who traveled with her father and called him grandfather because he was an old man and the girl was young. Which didn’t matter to their particular species, but it certainly made it easier for those who met them. The Doctor carefully didn’t look at her when he told her that part. 

The wood lice from outer space made her think of the first animals she caused to die. She became so proficient, she couldn’t even single out the real beginning. It was different than taking a life complicated and aware, which always carried a heady rush. Long before she had taken her own, she had killed a bird.

Birds ate at her family’s fields. They were protected, of course; but there weren’t eyes everywhere. So, she often used them as moving targets to practice her marksmanship with her father’s tacit approval. Mostly they exploded and rained down bird confetti fertilizer, which improved the yield anyway. Until the day she missed and only caught the tip of one wing. It disintegrated in the blast and the bird was hurled into the path of a metal collection bin before falling to the ground.

It squawked wearily on its back, crushing the red grass. She could see into the slit the edge of the bin had etched into the burgundy feathers right to its beating heart. Suddenly she understood how the heart contracted and expanded while the blood pumped through the arteries, she was watching it work. She took the little knife she always carried and opened up the wound further, ignoring the bird’s shrill cry. Now she could observe digestion in progress, the dark spots of seeds it had eaten that morning.

Lub lub went the heart, slower and slower and she watched the life bleed out into the soil. And the bird died. 

After that, she stopped shooting to kill. She aimed to wound. Then, she would dissect and study the small form until it was still. She learned the muscle grouping, how the body handled trauma. She traced the bones, sinew, spine, marveled how easily the pieces separated. 

They eventually found the mutilated remains; the overseer had a word with her tutor who had a word with her dad. After the resulting…arduous…punishment, she became more careful about disposing of what was left.

Her friend looked sickened when she shot a bird in front of him while he was visiting during an Academy break. Then he realized it wasn’t dead. “Oh, you’ve just hurt it. Can we save it?”

“Time Lords and Ladies, step right up and behold the miracle of life!” she intoned, gesturing like a country fair announcer. “Here,” She cut a practiced swipe through the sternum. “The heart!”

“It’s…beating,” her friend said, in horror.

“Squeamish much?” she laughed at him. “That’s the point, you are able to see it now. In a minute it will stop and just be a corpse.”

“No. Close it up. It can still live.” He shuddered.

“Why? Have you ever seen a living heart beat in front of you? It’s like a secret flower, petals opening and closing in rhythm. And that’s just the beginning! You can watch the synapses work if you stimulate the right section. There--” 

“You’re hurting it. You’re killing it! Please, stop.”

That honestly hadn’t occurred to her. And what did it matter if she tortured a bird anyway? Served it right for messing with the crops. She realized how much like her father that sounded and quickly shut down the line of thought. 

“You always have to be so noble,” she complained. “It’s really tiresome. Look. I’m sorry, but this one’s a lost cause. It won’t last till we make it back to the house and I don’t have anything with me except my knife and the gun. Do you?” She knew he didn’t.

“Please,” he held onto her arm. “Please, no more. Just…end it swiftly and promise me, no more.”

“All right.” She threw up her hands in exaggerated surrender. “Fine! I promise. If it bothers you, I won’t. Look away, then, tut tut!” She shooed him until he turned around. She rapidly cut the head off and the bird twitched a few times. Her friend’s back was to her but she saw the bunch of his shoulders and the way he gripped his arms; it was as if he was holding himself in. He stared out to the horizon while she buried it.

“It’s finished.” She called out.

He faced her again, and relaxed. “It’s all rock and dirt where I live,” he told her. “In the Drylands. You can see rock lizards in the morning and the evening. Once, I moved a stone and nearly crushed one. Paralyzed its back legs. I got the med kit out and tried to fix it, I pictured myself as a famous surgeon saving the life of this sad, maimed reptile. I opened it up, just like you did, to mend whatever nerve conduit I had smashed using a couple of cryo-needles and electric sutures. I talked to it, I kept saying hang on, hang on. It was thrashing so hard with fear and hurt. Until it wasn’t any more. The poor creature went into shock and died right there on the boulder I was using as an operating table. Of course, I had no idea where to even start; it was just a jumble of blood and tissue, and I had to stop once to be sick. But you would have known exactly what to do. That lizard would still out there somewhere, eating bugs and raising lizard babies.”

She thought back to her bird experimentations. Possibly? With the right supplies? She knew the nervous system. She knew how it connected and which delicate cord controlled what. She had twitched them with her knife and made them jump many times, after all. It probably wouldn’t be too different in a lizard. “Yes. I think so, anyway.”

“So, I felt its pain and you didn’t. But it died while I tried my hardest, with the best intentions. You could have actually saved it. If you wanted to.” He looked at her with such fierce pride and affection that if she had not known already he was her best friend and always would be, she knew it then. 

The next day, armed with the proper provisions this time, they searched until they found a wounded vole, half-mauled by a predator. He passed the small, furry creature to her. “You save him. I’ll help.”

And she did.

Thinking back, that probably explained the bargain he struck with her more than anything else.


	7. Chapter 7

“It isn’t funny! Missy!”

She laughed so hard she thought she would hurt herself. She couldn’t stand anymore, she plunked down on the edge of the dais. Now she was to the point where nothing would even come out, tears started in the corners of her eyes.

“Missy! Are you going to help me or not?”

“Blind?” she gasped. “Seriously. Blind?!” She was off again on another round.

He waited in a pose of exasperation.

Eventually she managed to rein it in, only the occasional chortle breaking through. She got up and swiftly snatched his sunglasses from his face.

“What are you doing?” He demanded.

She studied them briefly, noting the settings he had activated. Pretty slick, actually. “I need to examine the patient, dear.” He held out his hand, and she obligingly surrendered the glasses. He tucked them in an inside pocket.

She took a step forward until she could practically touch him and waved her hand in front of his eyes. He didn’t blink, the pupils didn’t contract. 

“Stop waving your hand,” he said crossly. “I can feel the air movement.”

She retreated a few paces and produced a handkerchief out of her own pocket. She knotted it swiftly in a ball. Then she pelted her friend with it.

“Catch!” she said after it hit him. She hadn’t had so much fun since she’d been thrown in the vault.

“Missy!”

“All right, all right.” She retrieved her handkerchief. “Go high!” It bounced off his forehead. The laughter broke through again, and she couldn’t catch her breath for awhile.

He glared at the direction it had come from--which wasn’t where she was anymore. She shook so violently with mirth she fell back again on the dais. She couldn’t even remain upright this time, she had to lay down. After a few minutes, she calmed enough to sit up.

The Doctor was still standing there, stoic and fuming.

“I didn’t come here to be mocked,” he complained.

“Really? Because it is VERY funny.” With a final giggly hiccup, she pulled herself up. She walked over to him. “Can I borrow your screwdriver?”

“Why?” he said suspiciously.

“Do you want me to reset your glasses instead?”

He didn’t say anything. His look, pitched more or less in her direction, said it all.

She sighed. “I swear I will not do anything untoward. Would I do that to you in your hour of need?” Her mouth twitched rebelliously before she got it under control.

“Yes,” he said immediately.

“You have to trust me. I can’t just look at your eyes and see what’s wrong with any precision.”

He reluctantly handed it over.

It felt good in her hand. A heartbeat and she could be out of the vault, walking the world, sailing the stars in a stolen Tardis. Though it should be said that his machine was the most unreliable Tardis she had ever seen. The times she handled it was like arguing with taffy. She was torn somewhere between passing fondness for his blue box and the purest envy.

Fighting against every impulse she had, she slowly raised the device and activated it near his eyes.

“Oh.” She said, surprised. “The optic nerve is actually missing. Not damaged, withered, or burnt; just not there. Have you tried a regenerative healing?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Doctor!” she exclaimed with shock not entirely feigned. “Well, I hope not more than once,” Then went on in a matter of fact tone. “There’s nothing to heal. It’s simply gone. If you were to regenerate completely maybe it would fix itself. But, maybe not. It’s as smooth as a birth defect. There’s not even a place for it to go, no optical pathways remain to connect to the brain at all.”

“So there’s nothing to be done.”

“Did I say that? No, I didn’t.”

“But Nardole--”

“Oh, Nardole,” she rolled her eyes. “What does an egg know about Time Lord physiology? There are a couple of options.”

“They are?”

“The first is that you go cyborg. I can build you a cybernetic eye. Come on! All the cool kids are doing it.”

“If the pathways don’t exist, that’s not going to do any good,” The Doctor objected.

“I can perhaps nudge some neighboring synapses, convince them a detour would be a good idea. It’s for a great cause and all that.”

“I appreciate your kind offer, but I’m going to have to decline. You don’t get to muck around in my brain.”

“Are you impinging on my skills as a surgeon?”

“No, I know exactly how skilled you are. And that’s why you are getting nowhere near the inside of my head.”

“All right,” she pouted. “Then it has to be a mechanical work around. It won’t be permanent, but it might serve as a stop-gap when you absolutely have to see something you can’t with the sunglasses. I’d need a workshop set up for a day or so.”

“That sounds better.” He felt his way to one of the chairs and sat, relieved. She joined him in the other.

“I could just leave the workshop up after you finish,” he suggested gently.

“No.”

“I’ve never known you not to be working on something. It must be driving you mad.”

It was. Her hands itched to create, to put wire to wire and end up with magic. She pulled herself together in another beat and smiled at him. “No. Thank you, for the thought. You have your rules, I have mine.”

He looked at her sharply, but didn’t say anything more. She didn’t either.

A week later, she presented him with a sleek black box. She had stamped the molded plastic with Gallifreyan symbols, to add a little elegance to the clunky, human material. And a warning to curious aliens. She had forgotten how she missed building with her hands, and bent a considerable amount of energy making the design beautiful since the object itself was a bit iffy.

“It runs on regeneration energy,” she explained. “So only use in times of dire need. It has to trick the body into believing that it’s organic when it’s not or your system will reject it. Our bodies tend to not respond well to technology this intrusive. The nodes go here,” she placed her fingers lightly on either side of her friend’s temples. “The nanotech will connect them into the nervous system, it works like a Dalek rig. It will bypass the optic nerve completely and you should be able to see…for a few minutes.”

“Sometimes that’s all you need. You’re sure this will work?”

She shrugged. “There’s no way to try it out. Wielding regeneration energy is no joke. You know that. There’s always a price when you borrow, and sometimes it is very high.”

He ran his fingers over the raised casing. “This is lovely.”

The praise flustered her for a moment, she had to turn her head away. “The theory is sound, and what tests I could run on it indicated it is functional. Put it somewhere you can find it quickly and hope you never have to use it.”

“That would be nice,” he sighed and exited, taking the box with him.


	8. Chapter 8

When he began to speak through the door, she was so startled she lost her place in the book she was reading.

“They can’t know I’m blind, Missy. No one can know. Memories are so much worse in the dark.” He sounded strange, afraid. She opened up her mouth to tell him to come in, then shut it. That wasn’t the way their little game worked.

He didn’t speak again for a long time, but he hadn’t left. She reopened her book and read while she waited. She looked up when she heard a distant phone conversation, she couldn’t make out all the words but caught “I think we’re going to be very, very busy,” at the end. His voice became louder again as he returned to the door. “Missy, if it comes down to it, if you’re all I’ve got left…then I need your help. You said you were my friend. Something’s coming Missy. And I’m blind. How can I save them when I’m lost in the dark?”

The question was rhetorical, because his footsteps echoed away.

That was the last time she heard from him.

From anyone.

No one visited. Not even Egg came to change out her books.

Contemplation of the absolute was one thing, but this was ridiculous. She kept the vault mostly bare, she knew where her hands and mind would take her. The plan had always been to keep distractions to a minimum. Maybe she should have learned to knit.

There was nothing to do but mull over the Doctor’s last communication. She gave serious thought to breaking out and riding to his rescue. Or…just breaking out. She couldn’t be expected to stay if her keeper was dead, right? Yet she remained, gnashing her teeth. The phrase, ‘You said you were my friend’ was thrown down like a gauntlet, a dare she could only win if she bided her time. He wanted her as a resource, not a crusader. Otherwise she would be by his side already. The timelines she could access were ambiguous, but not alarming. He seemed to be well occupied; if anything, he was enjoying himself. She wasn’t going to renege on her promise so easily.

She had always cultivated patience. She put that skill to work with a vengeance. But the walls pressed in.

One morning, the names started.

Running through her mind, she didn’t even know what they were at first until images paired with them. Then, she got it quickly enough. She watched herself behead one person, blast another, wipe out a civilization with a bomb, burn a village. The mounting list of all her dead. But this time she didn’t experience the powerful surge of lust and joy she had felt while killing them. Instead, she lived the suffering stamped on their faces that her brain had dutifully recorded but given no emotional weight. Suddenly it was her feelings that were inconsequential and all she could focus on was the hopeless agony of those she had damned. How could she know their names? But she did, and the ones she couldn’t know, too faceless, too many at once, were somehow worse. She tried to sleep to get away from them, but no longer could. Her already stressed sanity began to buckle.

The litany was repeated, every day. When it came to the end it would rest for some hours, reducing her to a quaking child. Then it would start over. She tried to play piano, she tried to read. Eventually she stopped fighting it and let it happen, listening, stoic and silent. Please hurry, she thought to the heavens, to the air. She knew it was futile. She was so completely alone. They had spent centuries apart without a qualm, but they had seen each other at least a few times a week for decades now and his absence was like a sudden gaping abyss. All while the inexorable march of names went on and on.

She thought she was hallucinating when she heard his voice through the door. It was like an angel, if she believed in angels. She ran to the containment field as requested, there was a pang as she spoke “Clara” and the electrical walls sprang up. Then she covered herself in the semblance of boredom, and played idly on the piano in the perfect theatrical touch as he entered.

Of course, he brought her more of a gift than he knew because he came with Clara’s replacement in tow. An uncomplicated girl with an expressive face. Perfect. Plus, a puzzle to set for him, something she knew he didn’t. She called the Doctor out on his hypocrisy when he dared to reproach her in his ostentatious display of “good” one-upmanship. The nerve!

And she was herself again. It made her a little melancholy to realize how much she had missed her.

 

He came to her for a proper visit after the unwelcome alien visitors had been sent packing.

She responded to his request for entry with a quick affirmative, but other than that, she didn’t speak. She couldn’t talk to him, the macabre recitation continued in her mind and she didn’t know how to begin. They sat quietly together for a long time. He kept stealing glances at her but she resolutely studied the wall. Eventually, he pulled out a magazine and read. She felt the drops flow down her face before she realized she was crying, then it was like a torrent like she had not experienced in years. Like something burst. She finally spoke into the oppressive quiet and told him about the names. She tried to keep her voice level but it wobbled more than she wanted.

“You didn’t tell me about this bit,” she stated, matter of fact.

“I’m sorry, but this is good,” he replied, not unkindly. She knew this was a lesson he understood to his bones because he had his own set of names. Unlike her, he had drug his with him since he caused them. She used to make fun of him for it. Her deaths and his deaths crowded around the two demigods in their chairs; accusing and corporeal. And very much alike.

“Okay,” she said, and rallied with an effort.


	9. Chapter 9

She started crafting her Confession Dial to silence the voices.

Or at least mute them, she couldn’t concentrate on anything else while they demanded her attention.

“Hello, hello, Miss? I wonder if I could ask for your help…uh,” interrupted her when she was well into it one evening. The sense she got from the stuttering explanation that followed from Egg was that the Tardis had inexplicably left the Doctor on Mars. “I was wondering you could tell me how to fix--”

“Of course I can!” She had heard enough.

“Oh, right. Thank you!”

“It’s probably easier if I just show you.”

She enjoyed the consternation coming from the other side of the door enormously.

Her old self would have stolen the thing and gotten as far away as she could as soon as her hands touched the controls. She’d be halfway to declaring herself supreme dictator of some unfortunate planet before anyone realized she wasn’t coming. Instead, she dutifully flew to the Doctor’s side. There were only a few reasons a Tardis would go haring off like that. All of them bad, and she didn’t know which one until she saw him. She cursed herself for being so wrapped up in her own inertia she had stopped paying attention.

She peered from behind the console and quietly faced him as he stepped on board. He was completely appalled she was loose, but she could have cared less. “Are you all right?” she asked him. He warned her about breaking their agreement, informed her he would put her back in the vault, it barely registered. She walked over, close enough to kiss. “But Doctor, please tell me, really…are you all right?” Then looked him up and down in a detailed analysis as only a Time Lady could. 

It was her turn to be appalled.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” She raged at him later in the privacy of her vault. The others had left quickly enough after she skewered them with her eyes.

“You didn’t need to know,” he replied.

“Really. So it’s perfectly fair to chuck me in a bin and know there’s better than usual odds you’ll never come back. That you risk your life, and those of your pets--I might add--because, why? You’re too pig-headed to worry anyone? That it will go away by itself if you leave it alone?”

“It might!”

“Ha! You know better than that. And you were very fortunate I was there for Egg thing to go get!” She took a deep breath. “Fine. Let’s talk about the terms of our agreement, which you so kindly brought up. What about the right I have to a…a…caretaker who is not going to vanish!”

“If anything happened to me, Nardole would get you out.”

“Like he did when you were captured by the Monks?” she shot back.

“That was temporary! I was coming back.”

“It was six months!” A thought struck her like a lightning bolt. She almost couldn’t get the words out to ask. “Are you giving up, is that what this is about. Doctor? Answer me. Are you giving up on me?”

“No.” he was shocked. “Never.”

“Then honor your deal!” She almost shouted in his face.

“What are you suggesting, Missy?!” He yelled back, equally close.

She pulled back, graciously granted him room. “I have to be with you. Every time you step foot in that Tardis, you do it with me. As a failsafe. No more traveling alone.”

“No. No, are you mad? And I’m not alone, I have Nardole and Bill!”

“Didn’t you hear me? I said you can’t travel alone.”

“Nardole is perfectly capable--”

“Of course! That must be why he ran to me in a panic, because he knew just what to do! I could have just stayed in the vault with my feet up.” 

“You could have! It would have worked out fine.”

She took a quick, exasperated breath.

“Darling, your headstrong, impulsive, mind-of-its-own Tardis was worried enough about you to leave you stranded in the middle of an adventure to go fetch me, of all people. If you don’t want to listen to me, then go argue with her.”

She patiently watched him out of the corner of her eye while he paced and ranted quietly to himself. Eventually he ran down.

“Let me put it this way,” she smiled sweetly. “You don’t want to fight us both.”


	10. Chapter 10

Her umbrella rested horizontally between two chairs. She sat on the floor next to it, a scattering of tools spread out. She had an apparatus over her eyes with a magnifier and quite a few lenses on metal pivots that could be rotated up and down as needed. She leaned in. The handle of the umbrella was split open and she adjusted wires with a steady hand. She set down the pliers, and picked up a tiny precision blowtorch.

Melting metal with fire was truly soothing.

And she needed to be soothed because if she paused for one minute she would start trembling, and she didn’t think she’d be able to stop.

She loved to sing; she danced, she played piano. So she had no idea what the Doctor meant when he said, rather condescendingly, that she didn’t hear the music. Apparently. She thought the stalwart band of Picts and Romans trapped in a hill for eternity was rather dreadful, she lately possessed a fairly vivid measure of what that meant. And she tried not to be hurt by the Doctor’s willingness to abandon her for a cause that didn’t need him. She saw it for the impulse to run that it was, only this time it was away from her. At least Expressive Girl clocked him before he did something regrettable.

But then she listened, really listened to the Scottish air when the others were busy, and it somehow reached past all her quick-witted defenses and seized her soul. It brought her to tears. The Doctor found her like that, vulnerable and exposed, just her naked squelchy self, like a Dalek.

But he put his hands on hers and told her that maybe it was time for them to be friends again. If she really had changed. And it completely undid her. It was the way he touched her, how long had it been since anyone touched her in honest tenderness? Centuries, perhaps. Longer. Maybe the last time had been him too. She hadn’t known how much she craved it, just that simple touch of kindness and regard and friendship. From someone who knew everything she had done and loved her anyway, and would be willing to shift the universe for her if she let him. If she wanted to really try.

To hell with her stupid vault rules, she needed a project and she needed it now. She would fly apart into atoms otherwise. It was a perfect time to make the upgrades on her umbrella, since she found it again in the Tardis; the Doctor must have picked it up after she threw it in the graveyard.   And the bonus was that she could pilfer tools.

“Missy, do you have my spanner?” came through the crack in the door. “Nardole thought he saw you tuck a tool away before we took you back.”

“Not sure,” she said, moving the spanner underneath the chair with the toe of her boot. “Why don’t you come and look?” She put the torch down and swiftly wound one cable with another.

She heard the vault open but didn’t look up.

“You have half the Tardis in here! How many pockets do you have?”

“A few. A girl should always be prepared.”

“I haven’t seen that in a while.” He squinted at the umbrella. “The last time, you were using it as a parachute.”

“I know. I thought I’d get it up to date, add a few surprises.”

“Can I look?”

“Be my guest,” she obligingly scooted over; he sat beside her.

“Clever. Are you sure the sonic loop won’t give off too much feedback?”

“Think about the surface area, it’s much larger than your screwdriver. The extended length safely dissipates it, and gives it a bit more power.”

“A lot more power.”

“It’s the same principal of quantum folding as I had in that old laser screwdriver, do you remember that? But this can absorb as well. If hit with a blast, it converts the energy to a charge it can use.”

“That’s sort of become your schtick, hasn’t it?”

“Well, that converted vortex manipulator saved my life several times. And Clara’s.” She glanced at him from under her lashes but he didn’t react. “Can you hold that? Fancy you dropping by just when I need another pair of hands.”

“It’s a talent.” He clamped and held.

She raised the torch, and gave it just a kiss of heat. “Perfect.” She pulled the eye apparatus from her head.

“If you made a reinforcement here and here,” he pointed. “And connected the two, it might be even more efficient.”

She looked speculatively. “I’d have to adjust the cable width but that could work. Do you have a thinner cable?”

“Have you completely emptied your pockets?” he countered.

She found a few more odds and ends she had tucked away but nothing useful. The Doctor emptied his as well. He pulled out a wind-up toy, a yo-yo, tape, assorted other Tardis repair detritus, and thinner cable.

“Hooray!” she cheered.

The bent their heads together and only scientific muttering could be heard. The names, the regrets, the rawness she had carried like a brand these days subsided. It was only her and the Doctor and the project in front of them, their ideas meshing just like they always had. This is how it was. This is how it could be.

And because it had nagged at her for longer than she cared to think about, and she felt so comfortable with him at that moment…she didn’t edit, just wondered and asked aloud.

“Did you ever tell her who I was?”

“Tell who what?”

It was so much easier with just pronouns.

“Our girl. Susan. Did you ever tell her who I was?”

He carefully put his tools down and edged away from her, his face like stone.

“Why are you asking me now.”

Repentance.

“Because that is part of good, isn’t it? Facing old wrongs, making them right.”

“You gave her to me. As soon as you could. Then you left, and I had to make up a story so she could grow up as a normal child and not a pariah because how many laws did her existence violate? And you weren’t there, and I began to hear horrors. You came back and confirmed most of them. I didn’t even know you anymore. Then I wondered if I ever had. What did you think I told her?!”

“I don’t blame you. I…wouldn’t have wanted her to know.”

“Well, she didn’t. Not from me.”

“I’m sorry.” She could barely speak. “I can’t apologize to her. I can’t beg her forgiveness. But I can ask for yours. I am so very sorry.” And she used his name. His real name.

She was crying again. What the hell.

“I left you.” He spoke as if the words were ripped out of him unwilling. “I left you there. And it was only after that you tried to kill me, it was only then the worst atrocities started; I made you who you are. I had a hand in what you became. It was my fault.”

“No! Never think that. You demean us if you truly believe it. This…has always been part of me. It’s always been who I am. That’s why it’s so hard to change.”

“So why change? After all this time, now you make a sincere vow, why?”

She smiled cheekily, a flash of sass. “Maybe I just needed proper motivation.” She laughed but it had a hysterical edge. Then she was quiet once more. “You had to choose. You couldn’t save us both. I know that.” She paused. “I didn’t, then.”

He ran his fingers wildly through his hair. “I spoke up because I had to give them something or they would have found her. They were that close, they almost put it all together. I bought time. And I was so angry with you. For putting us all in this situation, for forcing this upon me on top of everything else. I would have saved you if I could. But I didn’t dwell on it when I couldn’t.” He bit the last part off. “I was so glad to see you, when we met up again. I never told you, but I was.”

“In any regeneration, in any scheme that you cause to fail, any assassination you prevent…it doesn’t matter. I am always glad to see you,” she said simply.

He sought her hand, and held it. She felt as if she was breaking.

“The question still stands.” She said shakily. “Can you forgive me?”

“I already have. Long ago.” And he used her real name.


	11. Chapter 11

It was done.

She could hold it in her palm. Such a weighty thing, yet no real weight at all. So thin to contain all it did.

“Missy?” called the door.

She tucked it away in an inner pocket.

“I have a brilliant, wonderful, splendid idea!”

“Oh, come in!” she said in overdone annoyance.

He positively bounded in.

“We’re going to try you out, give you a test run. Let you be me and see how you do.”

She stopped dead and her eyebrows flew up. “Really.”

“Yes! Bill and Nardole will help you. We’ll pick up a distress call and you can take it. I’ll monitor the whole thing from the Tardis. It’s perfect.”

“I have this mad notion that we might have seen My Fair Lady too many times. Has my name changed to Eliza?”

“Next time we do “The Rain in Spain”, you can lead.”

“Finally,” she muttered.

“Soooo, what do you think?”

“What do I think about solving a petty little crisis of a lot of pathetic humans with the negligible assistance of Egg and Expressive Girl? You don’t think I deserve a real challenge?”

“Come on, this could be your life; seeing the universe and fixing it as you go! I want to see what you can do. Show me what ya got.” He drawled, waggling his eyebrows exaggeratedly.

“Well. I’ll try to refrain from yelling at Dover to move his bloomin’ arse. If I absolutely must.”

“At the Ascot Op’ning Day…” He doffed an imaginary cap.

“No, no, no!” She stamped her foot. “If you’re going to do a number it has to be “Why Can’t a Woman be more Like a Man”. You’re so delightfully crotchety when you do it.” She considered. “Even if it does sound like the first line of a Time Lord joke…in extremely poor taste.”

“’Why can’t a woman be more like a man?’” The Doctor intoned.

“There it is!” she crowed. “And I have the most splendid hat.”


	12. Chapter 12

 

When the proto-cybermen lurched from the elevator and collected Bill’s dead body, she recognized them.  No context, no explanation; she saw the fabric-swathed humanoids and they were as familiar to her as the walls of her vault.  She realized instantly what it meant.  And then she got in a shouting match with the Doctor; and only stood him down from being blown away with a glistening hole in his chest by yelling at him: “if someone kills you and it’s not me, we’ll both be disappointed!”.  Which was absolutely true but she had never imagined a circumstance she would ever say it to him.  She may have gone a little mad.

           

“Hello, Missy.  I’m the Master.  I’ve very worried about my future. Give us a kiss.”

For one second she was caught by total, abject, terror.  In the next, she had a plan.

She looked at her other self, triumphantly gloating in the success of his little ploy; but she also noted the relief of a man caught in the wheels of own scheme, anticipating a possible out.  She knew the look.  How…adorable.

“Instead, why don’t we go have a cozy reunion with an old friend?” she suggested slyly.  “It’s been so long.  He’s simply dying to see you.”

“That sounds,” he paused.  “Perfect.”

He held out his hand, she took it.  She forgot what it meant, she nearly forgot her way forward.  A single taste after years of denial and she was drunk on destruction, the undertow of evil emanating from his love of it, which was also hers.  It inexorably drew her in, promising everything she had abjured.  She reveled in it.

In the fight that followed, she did have the presence of mind to fling their hapless victim against a computer, but it was a near thing.  And if her other self hadn’t arrogantly proclaimed he would rather DIE than beg for his life from the Doctor, it all might have gone differently.  No one deserved to be knocked out with an umbrella more than he did right then. 

 

“Stand with me.  It’s all I ever wanted.”

“Me too,” She couldn’t even see him, her vision was so blurred with tears. 

The Doctor offered his hand, she waved it away and all it represented. “But, no,” she smiled; an echo of her brilliant, Missy smile.  “Sorry.  Just, no.”

It was not that simple.  She could never be the person he wanted her to be.  But perhaps—

She made a decision.  It might succeed, it might not.  But she had a contingency.  She took his hand firmly, resolutely, in hers.  A promise, despite her words to the contrary.  Also, in that last handclasp, she passed him her Confession Dial.  “Thanks for trying,” She glanced up at him meaningfully, then away.  She gave his hand a final squeeze to fold his fingers around the edges.  She ducked and strode off; refusing to look back.  She missed seeing his shock.  His despair.  Later, his willingness to consign himself to die, to reject his own regeneration.  He teetered on the brink until the ghosts of friends who needed him, calling his name, gave him a reason to stay.  The last “Doctor!”, the one that finally pulled him to his feet, was hers.

She stored it all in that small, flat, disc.  How she ran to him for help because he always helps, but she couldn’t bring herself to tell him the reason.  That she set him up with Clara, and gave him the Cybermen army to rewrite time, to use him as a fulcrum to wrench her own future from the terrible trajectory it held.  Failing that, she tried her best to prepare.  She tried to change herself. 

 

She had never known how.  Or why.  Or was even able to see anything but colorless shapes, images through a steamed glass door.  A no-man’s-land of nothingness surrounded her latest regeneration and what preceded it, the ground she stood on was the conviction that the Doctor was oddly and completely mixed up in it.  Only two events survived: One, a lady threw her against the wall and extoled her to always carry a dematerialization circuit.  That was the clearer of the two.  The second one…was more obscure.

She heard a voice, her voice, as it used to be.  It cried: “ _This_ is where we’ve always been going.  This, is our perfect ending.  We shoot ourselves in the back!” Followed by mingled laughter…hers, and a horribly familiar other.  Feminine.  Then, the giddy high of having dispensed true death as her laughter continued unabated.  Alone.  The other had stopped.

She had killed herself, and she had to live with that.

Now, it was done.

 

The Confession Dial would only open when she was dead.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Also, check out my thoughts on all things Doctor Who (reboot), reviews, actors, behind the scenes and more: https://maurinetritch.wordpress.com/


End file.
